I grew up pretending I was a mother; carrying dolls in my arms, soothing imaginary daughters from their nightmares, giving made-up sons the hugs and kisses I wished to have received. The make-believe continued well into my first serious relationship, right out of high school. We knew the name of our unborn kids and, for the first time ever, I was not playing house alone. I believed with every fiber of my being that I wanted to get married by 25 and meet the children of our dreams.  

Until I turned 25, then 26, then 27… and I was nowhere near where I wanted to be. As we grew older, we grew apart. Our dissolution planted seeds of doubts. Life didn’t feel quite so straightforward anymore. Maybe I should focus on myself. Maybe I should focus on my mess. Maybe I shouldn’t be a mother. Maybe I never really wanted to.

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